Here have you seen a mighty king

His child, iwis, to incest bring;

A better prince and benign lord,

That will prove awful both in deed and word.

Be quiet then as men should be,

Till he hath pass’d necessity.

I’ll show you those in troubles reign,

Losing a mite, a mountain gain.

The good in conversation,

To whom I give my benison,

Is still at Tarsus, where each man

Thinks all is writ he speken can;

And to remember what he does,

Build his statue to make him glorious:

But tidings to the contrary

Are brought your eyes; what need speak I?

Good Helicane, that stay’d at home.

Not to eat honey like a drone

From others’ labours; for though he strive

To killen bad, keep good alive;

And to fulfil his prince’ desire,

Sends word of all that haps in Tyre:

How Thaliard came full bent with sin

And had intent to murder him;

And that in Tarsus was not best

Longer for him to make his rest.

He, doing so, put forth to seas,

Where when men been, there’s seldom ease;

For now the wind begins to blow;

Thunder above and deeps below

Make such unquiet, that the ship

Should house him safe is wreck’d and split;

And he, good prince, having all lost,

By waves from coast to coast is tost:

All perishen of man, of pelf,

Ne aught escapen but himself;

Till Fortune, tired with doing bad,

Threw him ashore, to give him glad:

And here he comes. What shall be next,

Pardon old Gower,—this longs the text.

Yet cease your ire, you angry stars of heaven!

Wind, rain, and thunder, remember earthly man

Is but a substance that must yield to you;

And I, as fits my nature, do obey you:

Alas, the sea hath cast me on the rocks,

Wash’d me from shore to shore, and left me breath

Nothing to think on but ensuing death:

Let it suffice the greatness of your powers

To have bereft a prince of all his fortunes;

And having thrown him from your watery grave,

Here to have death in peace is all he’ll crave.

What, ho, Pilch!

Ha, come and bring away the nets!

What, Patch-breech, I say!

What say you, master?

Look how thou stirrest now! Come away, or I’ll fetch thee with a

wanion.

Faith, master, I am thinking of the poor men that were cast away before

us even now.

Alas, poor souls, it grieved my heart to hear what pitiful cries they

made to us to help them, when, well-a-day, we could scarce help

ourselves.

Nay, master, said not I as much when I saw the porpus how he bounced

and tumbled? They say they’re half fish, half flesh: a plague on them,

they ne’er come but I look to be washed. Master, I marvel how the

fishes live in the sea.

Why, as men do a-land; the great ones eat up the little ones: I can

compare our rich misers to nothing so fitly as to a whale; a’ plays and

tumbles, driving the poor fry before him, and at last devours them all

at a mouthful. Such whales have I heard on o’ the land, who never leave

gaping till they swallowed the whole parish, church, steeple, bells and

all.

[_Aside._] A pretty moral.

But, master, if I had been the sexton, I would have been that day in

the belfry.

Why, man?

Because he should have swallowed me too; and when I had been in his

belly, I would have kept such a jangling of the bells, that he should

never have left, till he cast bells, steeple, church and parish up

again. But if the good King Simonides were of my mind,—

[_Aside._] Simonides?

We would purge the land of these drones, that rob the bee of her honey.

[_Aside._] How from the finny subject of the sea

These fishers tell the infirmities of men;

And from their watery empire recollect

All that may men approve or men detect!

Peace be at your labour, honest fishermen.

Honest! good fellow, what’s that? If it be a day fits you, search out

of the calendar, and nobody look after it.

May see the sea hath cast upon your coast.

What a drunken knave was the sea to cast thee in our way!

A man whom both the waters and the wind,

In that vast tennis-court, have made the ball

For them to play upon, entreats you pity him;

He asks of you, that never used to beg.

No, friend, cannot you beg? Here’s them in our country of Greece gets

more with begging than we can do with working.

Canst thou catch any fishes, then?

I never practised it.

Nay, then thou wilt starve, sure; for here’s nothing to be got

now-a-days, unless thou canst fish for’t.

What I have been I have forgot to know;

But what I am, want teaches me to think on:

A man throng’d up with cold: my veins are chill,

And have no more of life than may suffice

To give my tongue that heat to ask your help;

Which if you shall refuse, when I am dead,

For that I am a man, pray see me buried.

Die quoth-a? Now gods forbid’t, and I have a gown here; come, put it

on; keep thee warm. Now, afore me, a handsome fellow! Come, thou shalt

go home, and we’ll have flesh for holidays, fish for fasting-days, and

moreo’er puddings and flap-jacks, and thou shalt be welcome.

I thank you, sir.

Hark you, my friend; you said you could not beg?

I did but crave.

But crave! Then I’ll turn craver too, and so I shall ’scape whipping.

Why, are your beggars whipped, then?

O, not all, my friend, not all; for if all your beggars were whipped, I

would wish no better office than to be beadle. But, master, I’ll go

draw up the net.

[_Aside._] How well this honest mirth becomes their labour!

Hark you, sir, do you know where ye are?

Not well.

Why, I’ll tell you: this is called Pentapolis, and our King, the good

Simonides.

The good Simonides, do you call him?

Ay, sir; and he deserves so to be called for his peaceable reign and

good government.

He is a happy king, since he gains from his subjects the name of good

government. How far is his court distant from this shore?

Marry sir, half a day’s journey: and I’ll tell you, he hath a fair

daughter, and tomorrow is her birth-day; and there are princes and

knights come from all parts of the world to joust and tourney for her

love.

Were my fortunes equal to my desires, I could wish to make one there.

O, sir, things must be as they may; and what a man cannot get, he may

lawfully deal for—his wife’s soul.

Help, master, help! here’s a fish hangs in the net, like a poor man’s

right in the law; ’twill hardly come out. Ha! bots on’t, ’tis come at

last, and ’tis turned to a rusty armour.

An armour, friends! I pray you, let me see it.

Thanks, Fortune, yet, that, after all my crosses,

Thou givest me somewhat to repair myself,

And though it was mine own, part of my heritage,

Which my dead father did bequeath to me,

With this strict charge, even as he left his life.

‘Keep it, my Pericles; it hath been a shield

’Twixt me and death;’—and pointed to this brace;—

‘For that it saved me, keep it; in like necessity—

The which the gods protect thee from!—may defend thee.’

It kept where I kept, I so dearly loved it;

Till the rough seas, that spares not any man,

Took it in rage, though calm’d have given’t again:

I thank thee for’t: my shipwreck now’s no ill,

Since I have here my father gave in his will.

What mean you sir?

To beg of you, kind friends, this coat of worth,

For it was sometime target to a king;

I know it by this mark. He loved me dearly,

And for his sake I wish the having of it;

And that you’d guide me to your sovereign court,

Where with it I may appear a gentleman;

And if that ever my low fortune’s better,

I’ll pay your bounties; till then rest your debtor.

Why, wilt thou tourney for the lady?

I’ll show the virtue I have borne in arms.

Why, d’ye take it, and the gods give thee good on’t!

Ay, but hark you, my friend; ’twas we that made up this garment through

the rough seams of the waters: there are certain condolements, certain

vails. I hope, sir, if you thrive, you’ll remember from whence you had

them.

Believe’t I will.

By your furtherance I am clothed in steel;

And spite of all the rapture of the sea,

This jewel holds his building on my arm:

Unto thy value I will mount myself

Upon a courser, whose delightful steps

Shall make the gazer joy to see him tread.

Only, my friend, I yet am unprovided

Of a pair of bases.

We’ll sure provide: thou shalt have my best gown to make thee a pair;

and I’ll bring thee to the court myself.

Then honour be but a goal to my will,

This day I’ll rise, or else add ill to ill.